Читать книгу Ecstasy in the White Room - Portia Da Costa - Страница 5

This is a gorgeous room. So white and tranquil and glamorous, like something from a thirties movie set. I half expect Fred Astaire to come dancing out of the en suite bathroom, dressed in white tie and tails, and almost floating on air, ready to charm me.

Instead it’s Simon who emerges; not quite Fred, but a nifty mover all the same and, to my eyes, infinitely more handsome. He’s not in evening dress, but he is wearing an achingly good suit. It’s charcoal-gray, with just a faint sheen of midnight, and it makes his eyes gleam and flash like a pair of polished sapphires and the rest of him just look like a sex god.

I feel as if I’m in a movie too. At a pivotal moment, with a thousand eyes watching me. They’re waiting for the drama to begin, and the men are admiring my body. Maybe the women are, too? Perched on the upholstered dressing table stool, I add a little more tint to my lips, leaning forward toward the mirror and self-consciously graceful, both for the unseen audience and Simon’s intent gaze.

Those eyes of his narrow, noting my studied elegance. Or it could be the fact that I’m not actually ready yet, and thus presenting him with exactly the excuse he needs—if he ever needs one—to initiate one of our special games. The ones we learned from a certain book of naughty Victorian photographs, the Blue Book we once discovered while on holiday.

Simon doesn’t castigate me though. He doesn’t need to. He just gives me the look that makes me melt and fall to pieces in helpless lust.

Everything flutters inside me. Everything’s agitated and needy. I’m chaos incarnate in this calm sea of white. The setting is cool and exquisite, but I’m all hot and excited. My cheeks flush with a pink to rival my lip tint, and I’m glad I didn’t apply my blusher now. My throat and chest color up too, and that dizzy, revealing pink, combined with the dramatic chic of my black lace underwear, makes me into a creature of contrasts, stark and vivid in our snowy, creamy suite.

“I...I’m sorry, I was daydreaming.” I glance toward my black velvet evening gown, hanging against the front of the fitted wardrobe. It’s a slender, formfitting tube, a style I’d never even have contemplated at one time, but seeing as how I’ve been a star once already today, and I’d been dieting to get into quite a different dress, I might as well show my figure while at its most svelte. Simon flicks a look at the dress too, and quirks his sandy eyebrows in a significant gesture I know all too well. “It won’t take me but a moment to slip my dress on...sorry,” I twitter on, too keyed up, and roused up, to think straight.

“Oh, there’s plenty of time, my love,” he drawls. He’s affecting nonchalance, just as sophisticated Fred might have done, but I know him. He’s as excited as I am, and I can plainly see it, even though he’s become a past master at masking his emotions. Strolling toward me, he draws out a length of narrow black satin ribbon from his pocket, and when he reaches where I sit, at the white painted dressing table, he slips the dark band around my throat and ties it in a soft bow at the back of my neck. I feel a finger, then another, slip between the ribbon and my skin, testing my comfort. Simon’s always thoughtful in little touches like that, even though other things he does to me are far from comfortable.

I snatch a look at myself in the mirror. My hair’s up, so the bow is an eloquent symbol around my neck, perfectly clear to those who would recognize it for what it is. My heart thuds, and desire rolls slowly in the pit of my belly, acknowledging the significance.

If all those eyes were really watching us, they’d know this is the moment.

“But I do think we ought to remind you of the virtues of punctuality, perhaps? This’s the second time you’ve been late today, isn’t it?” He gives a little tug on the ribbon, urging me to my feet. He’s not rough; it’s just a minute increase of pressure, but oh so exciting. He’s right about the lateness too, even though he’s punished me for that already, in a stolen moment in the midst of the festivities.

“Yes...I’m sorry.” My voice is tiny. He tugs again, drawing me into the open, away from the minimal safety of the dressing table.

“There’s no need to speak.” His voice is quiet too, but it seems to resonate around the white expanse as if we were in a cathedral, bouncing off the walls and rebounding against me. “I think that chair will do...for a start.” He gestures imperiously to a leather upholstered armchair, also in white.

Chairs, leather-covered chairs, so good for our games. I think fondly of our pair of lovely Victorian chairs at home, with their gleaming red leather upholstery and their polished walnut frames. I purchased the first one from an antique store in a fit of extravagance, precisely because it would be perfect for spanking—either with me draped across the back of it, or over Simon’s knee when he was seated. I also knew it was the very thing to initiate a ritual, just like tonight. I got my wish, of course, and received various stringent spankings, as well as a reward in the form of the second chair, bought by Simon. This white chair is okay, but not nearly as characterful and full of risqué history as our Victorian beauties. It’s good for purpose though, just the right height. I make a move toward it, head up and controlling my nerves.

“Not just yet. You’re not prepared. Stand still.”

Obedient, I freeze. Well, as much as I can when every bit of me is trembling. In a ruthless gesture, he hooks a finger into the elastic of my black silk thong, and drags it down over hip and thigh, working his way around and then leaving it at half-mast, nestling against the tops of my hold-up stockings. For his purposes, we could have left the thing in place. It doesn’t hide my buttocks. But pulled-down knickers make much more of a statement. They make “bare” even more bare, and they enforce and reinforce my submission.

Simon prowls around me, perusing my pale belly and the flossy darker triangle of my bush, his blue eyes assessing, judging, noting. After a second or two, he reaches back into his pocket and brings out a pair of light handcuffs. They’re toys really, but strong in symbolism, and, taking me by the wrists, he secures them together behind my back. Destabilized, I sway, wishing I hadn’t already put on my high heels. It feels very precarious to be teetering on them and not able to reach out and support myself when lust makes me giddy and light-headed.

Simon’s strong arm at my elbow steadies me, and from the point of contact a sense of inner power flows. You might think that I shouldn’t need or want to feel powerful in this situation, but I do, believe me, I do. He’s as much in thrall to me as I am to him.

“Come along then.” I can hear the smile in his voice, as if he’s read my thought. “We’ve a lot to do before dinner, so we’d better get on with it.”

Firmly, he leads me to the chair and drapes me over the back of it, dressing my position meticulously. Legs apart, as far as they’ll go within the limits of my pushed-down thong, in order to reveal me to him. Bottom well up, presented at the best angle for punishment.

He fusses with my thong, the tops of my stockings. He’s being very particular. What is he going to use on me, I wonder? This hotel is far from a normal hotel—that’s why we chose it, from a recommendation—and our greeting gift was a well-stocked basket of complimentary sex toys and discipline items. High-end examples, just as one would expect from the equally high-end price of the accommodation here. But we’ve brought our own goodies from home, too, so it could be something familiar, or something brand-new.

Or maybe it’ll just be his hand.

In spite of his talk of haste, Simon takes his time. His finicky handling of me seems to involve a lot of accidental touches, and his warm fingers stray into my already sticky pussy, and flicker up my bottom cleft. I try not to moan, but when he reaches under me and pinches my clit, I gasp and jerk, struggling hard against the cuffs.

“Careful. Keep still. Behave yourself.” His hands withdraw and he strides purposefully away to the drawer in which he’s stowed our treasures. I hardly dare look, but I still do. With a dramatic flourish, he pulls out an old favorite, a red leather slapper, one he bought as another special gift, to match our red leather upholstered chairs.

It’ll probably also match my bottom before long too.

“I’ll just warm you up a bit, my love.” He trails the leather across the crown of my bottom, tickling both cheeks. “You’ll enjoy your dinner all the more with a glowing bum.”

I’m not sure that’s the case at all, but I’ve no doubt it’ll increase his appetite, the wretch.

From where I am, I can see him only in the mirror, but I watch as he removes his jacket, carefully sets it aside and rolls up his pristine shirtsleeves. Ah, the ritual. He loves that, as do I. I’m rapt as he takes his position, so elegant and lean in his dark trousers and dazzling white shirt. Soft light glints on his angelic blond hair.

Then, before I’ve had time even to properly register the movement, his arm rises and falls, bringing down the red slapper.

“Ow...ow! Ow! Ow!” It’s just one blow, but it’s fierce, hard, relentless. Flaming heat blossoms in a fat wedge across my right bum cheek, and while I’m still absorbing it, its mate blooms just as fiery in my left.

“Be quiet and stop showing off.” Simon affects the tones of a weary schoolmaster, even though I know inside he’s laughing as he punctuates each word with another volley of slaps. It’s hard to distinguish each impact when more than one or two have fallen, but I guess he’s trying to make a pattern of uniform heat across my bottom.

Without realizing it, I’ve started moaning. So much for his instruction. I am putting on a show, and in the mirror, I see him narrow his fine blue eyes again and square his shoulders. He knows I like the idea of an audience, and as if he’s performing for them too, the slapper comes down harder and faster, and makes my flesh bounce like elastic with each blow. I’m wriggling too, rubbing my body against the white upholstery, trying to work my aching crotch and my tingling nipples and get some relief, wishing I could reach down and pleasure myself, desperately.

“If you don’t behave yourself, I’ll leave you here and go down to dinner alone. Then I’ll beat you again when I come back, and twice as hard.”

Now, the staff and the other guests might think that’s rather odd, given what we are...but then again, perhaps not. This is a very particular hotel, with unusual services and activities. Not many places would have a mirror on the ceiling over the bed, a basket of complimentary dildos and vibrators and love-eggs available, and thoughtfully placed shackles exactly where adventurous guests might need to find them.

More blows land. Another two. Another two. My bottom’s agonized, but my pussy is suffering harder. It’s almost screaming for a touch or a stroke or maybe the long, lingering lick of a loving tongue?

Then as abruptly as he began, Simon stops, stands still and surveys his handiwork. I grit my teeth when he rubs his fingertips over the extensively red area. “I think that’ll do...for now.”

A finger slips into my vagina from behind and I make a determined effort to clasp it with my inner muscles and work myself on it. But Simon makes a sound of warning and I fall still, my heart thudding in time to the pulsing of blood in my punished bottom. His slender digit inside me feels massive, and out of all proportion, like the very center of my world. He scratches the nails of his other hand over my tenderized rear and a single tear trickles from the corner of my eye.

Uh-oh, I’ll have to fix my makeup.

“If you have pleasure now, you’ll have to pay for it,” he whispers, leaning right in close and intoxicating me with his spicy cologne.

“I know.” The words crack as he flexes his finger inside me and, to signal compliance, I grip hard, wiggling again against the chair.

“Very well,” he responds, his voice alive with excitement. Then, pulling out his finger, he rolls me over until I’m half standing, half leaning against the back of the chair. I gasp as my hot red buttocks press against the cool white leather, then let out another gasp as Simon comes at me from this new angle and jams his hand back between my legs.

He pushes two fingers inside me this time, and settles his nimble thumb squarely on my clit. With his other arm holding me firmly around my waist, beneath my fastened hands, he works me ruthlessly, roughly...just the way I like it. He doesn’t reprimand me this time when I moan and grunt and cry. Or when I mash myself against him, longing to grab at his shoulders and his back and his gorgeous muscular arse as he makes me come.